28.12.06

~Untitled- 6th October 2004~

Since I completely broke down last night, being caught off-guard by the tsunami of emotions that come this time of year on me like some sort of giant leech which sucks not blood, but all of the hope I thought I had, out of me. I feel it's appropriate to relate this poem I wrote of the fourth and (so far) last time I was raped. Since this was the impetus behind all of my sadness and depression this Christmas season. I tried desperately to make the blows glance off of me and to shoot them at those around me, but y'all know that never works. I realized through a crying jag on Christmas Day (it took me 10 years), that the reason I hate Christmas is because the last rape was either right before or right after Christmas (I can't pin down the exact date in my head. I can't remember it. I just know that about a week or so after that it was New Year's 1997.). So, I have let it spoil and infest everything about Christmas that I once loved and I hate myself for it. More than that, I hate the man who raped me. My faith tells me that I'm supposed to forgive those who hurt me "70 times 7", in other words infinitessimally. I'm supposed to pray for those who hurt me. The Scripture says that if a person doesn't forgive another who has hurt them then the Father in Heaven will not forgive your sins. Can a person forgive another person for what they did, but still hate them? I don't know if forgiveness and hate can go hand-in-hand. Hate the sin, but not the sinner? I hate both. At least with him.

Anyway, enough of me not being able to get over myself right now. It's making my head hurt. Here's my poem (Just in case anyone was wondering I didn't write it right after the rape. It took several years for me to even realize that I had been raped. Some part of me even still thinks it was my fault even though, logically, I know it wasn't. Feelings overwhelm rationality sometimes.):

For the majority of the year, I know for a fact and without a doubt that this was not my fault. It's just that when the flashbacks come and then the depression, crying and panic, it's hard to remember that fact. I don't know if that makes any sense to you at all, but that's the only way I know how to put it.

It seems like my healing takes place one-tenth-of-a-millimeter-at-a-time. Y'know? No, I really don't know if you know at all. That's not to say that I don't think you don't understand. Quite the opposite. I know you do. Your healing might take place a lot faster than mine. Everyone is different. Or you may take leaps and then crawl for awhile. Healing is so weird.

For me, those flashbacks are re-living hell, to put it mildly. The anniversaries are triggers no gun can match. PTSD... I'm healing but I'll always be coping.

I read your piercing poem of strength several times with tears flowing down my face and nausea in the pit of my stomach for you. Yet, I see strength and large steps towards healing. You were able to write this now so soon after Dec. 25th post it here, and express a myriad of emotions so well.

I especially like the visual style you use, particularly where words are squished against each other like prisoners. Yet I see much free space, too like breaking out of these jailed confines.

Healing is at one's own pace. It's an incredible difficult and slow journey as you already know. It may be semantics to some, but this is how I feel. I have learned to cope, move on with my life but I will never be "healed" and for me, therapists reinforced that I did not *have to forgive ever.* Oh, that was a relief because of my personality to want to please and fix everything.

Obviously, that varies for each person. Yes, I needed to release my anger, my tears let it go free, but I do not need to forgive the horrific sh*t. It's still with me, not as much on the surface but it's still there and that's for over 20 "triggers". We're different people so your therapist and you work out what's best for you.

For now, please know that your bravery in openly writing about this helped me tremendously. The only way I write about such on the net is similar to the poem "Clothes the Door" that you read. It's writing laced with lots of euphemisms and symbols. My sarcasm helps when I vent. Seeing your style and struggles, I wish I could do more. Please feel free to email me.

I don't think there's any such thing as a right way to heal, or a right way to let go or hold onto emotions. All due respect to others' thoughts, but if you want to, or need to, hold onto hate for a while, then that's what you need to do. No such thing as a wrong way.

It's been 17 years and a few months since I was raped the first time, and it's only been about four or five years that I've been consistently able to say that I'm over it, as much as I ever will be. That I don't have PTSD anymore. That it's a chapter in my past and it helped form who I am, and let's go get a coffee and some chocolate.

The other time happened full-on in the midst of PTSD, about eleven (holy shit!) years ago, and it barely made a blip on my radar screen, since I was so busy being self-destructive that it was just one more in a long string of bad experiences.

Moral of the story is, it can get better. It will. But the process of getting to "better" isn't a set path, with rules or even guidelines. Just keep living and working on it, and someday you'll wake up and think, "Oh, my God, the anniversary was two weeks ago and I never even noticed. Thank God."